January 07, 2009
How the Fulani celebrate Ashura
Gidaado the grill-man is sitting on a wooden bench by the side of the road. He is surrounded by a dozen boys and about twice as many dead chickens. Everyone is hard at work.
'Jam nyalli, Gidaado,' I call out. 'Are you passing the day in peace?'
Gidaado frowns at me through a cloud of downy chicken feathers thrown up by his team's ecstatic plucking. 'Peace only,' he says. 'The chickens are selling well today.'
I perch on the edge of the grill-man's bench and admire his dexterity dipping each bird in hot water and stripping it bald in under a minute. Dip and strip, dip and strip, then the denuded birds are thrown onto a piece of brown paper emblazoned with the logo FASO-CEMENT. I don't much feel like chicken tonight.
'Today is Ashura,' says Gidaado. 'My cousin Safi woke me up this morning by pouring a bucket of freezing cold water on my face.'
I emit a quiet whoop of sympathy. In this Saharan climate, 'freezing cold' is about 20 degrees, but my friend's discomfort was no less real for that. And all over town, people were woken up this morning in similar fashion, or worse.
Ashura means different things to different people. For Sunni Muslims in the Middle East, it is a day of prayer and fasting. They remember the prophet Moses, the miraculous crossing of the Red Sea and the just deserts of Egypt's Pharaoh. For Shi'a Muslims, the day is a commemoration of the assassination of Husayn ibn Ali, grandson of the prophet Mumammed. It is a day of remembrance, mourning and (in places) self flagellation. But for the Fulani people of Burkina Faso, Ashura is primarily about throwing water on your cousins.
There is a long history of dendiraaku (cousin-bashing) amongst the Fulani people. Your mother's brother's children are your mock enemies throughout your life, and you must enact this enmity by kicking them in the shins, stealing their belongings, and insulting them as frequently and creatively as possible. On the day of Ashura you crank it up a notch, drenching your cousin with water or dragging him along the ground. To put an end to these torments, your cousin can pay you haramaaji (protection money) in the form of a goat, a chicken, or hard cash. No wonder Gidaado has recruited a team of pluckers today. Everyone wants a chicken. Nothing turns away a cousin's wrath like a finely grilled bird.
By seven o'clock tonight, the water-torture will have drawn to a close, and families will gather together to do some serious feasting. The Fulani say that if you don't eat your fill on the night of Ashura, you won't have enough to eat during the year to come. Even in the poorest and most isolated of Fulani herding settlements, Ashura means Eat All You Can.
Light-skinned and fine-featured, the Fulani are very different from their black African neighbours, so their origin has been much debated by ethnologists. Differing theories abound as to whether the Fulani are descended from Berbers, Bohemians, Persians or Polynesians, but one thing the ethnologists do agree on: at some time in their distant nomadic history, the Fulani passed through Egypt. Fulani griot Bukari al-Farane goes even further: when he recites the tarik (genealogy) of his people's origins, he claims that a group of Fulani came out of Egypt with the children of Israel, following Moses through the Red Sea.
So here's my theory, born out of the ramblings of a griot, a few Fulani ethnologies and one afternoon with Gidaado the grill-man. The reason the Fulani have such a unique way of celebrating Ashura is that they were there at the time. They witnessed the Exodus. They spend the day deluging their mock enemies with water because of a specific event in folk memory - the collapse of a Red Sea tidal wave over the greatest enemy of all, Pharaoh and his mighty army.
'Salam aleykum,' I murmur, taking my leave of Gidaado.
'Aleykum asalam,' he replies, and then adds, 'Bon fête.'
Posted by sahelsteve at 11:00 PM
November 16, 2008
Dozens die in Burkina Faso bus crash
Tragic news about yesterday's bus crash in Burkina Faso west of Ouagadougou.
I do not know which bus company was involved, but the fact is that all the buses of Burkina Faso are death-traps, especially the ones which travel on unsurfaced roads. At this time of year the roads are terrible, having been damaged by three months of heavy rain. The road from Djibo to Ouaga should be declared impassable, but as long as there are people willing to risk the journey, you can be sure the buses will continue to career along it at breakneck speed.
Earlier this year I was driving from Ouaga to Djibo and was hit by an oncoming STAF bus. I say 'was hit by' because my (borrowed) truck was motionless at the time - I had seen its dust cloud way off in the distance and had pulled over to the side of the road to let it pass. The bus whizzed by at about 50 miles an hour, smashing my wing mirror and gouging the whole side of the truck. To the bus driver's credit, he did stop to check that we were all right, and the director of STAF did agree to pay for repairs. At the time, we were happy and relieved that no one was hurt. But others are not so fortunate - in the very same week as this accident, a STAF bus with faulty brakes ran over a young man near Djibo and killed him.
My point is basically this: these are not roads to drive fast on. Britain's Highway Code is understandably silent on the subject of post rainy-season corrugations (known affectionately here as 'washboard'), potholes, slews of sand, wandering herds of cows, flocks of sheep and (nuttiest of all) goats, but none of these hazards should be underestimated when travelling in Burkina Faso.
Poor bus drivers - they are contending with bad brakes, bald tyres and any number of mechanical faults on their clapped-out buses. But the fact remains, if you are driving a clapped-out bus, 'Inshallah' won't cut it. You should drive more slowly. Occasionally in Burkina Faso I do come across a bus driver who regulates his speed sensibly, and when we arrive at journey's end I make a point of thanking him and complimenting him on his driving.
What happened yesterday was tragic. When will the bus companies learn the lessons of these accidents?
Posted by sahelsteve at 11:52 AM
November 13, 2008
I want fifty
I have already written on the subject of people who have been strangled by their own turbans. Yesterday Hamma told me of an equally strange and unfortunate death which occurred in Djibo last market day. Hamma sells sheep in the animal market and is a good source of ovine current affairs.
Wednesday 5 November 2008. A man took his sheep to Djibo market. It was a fine ram and the man was hoping to make at least fifty thousand CFA ($100) on the sale.
A Fulani herder approached the man and said, 'I'll give you forty-five thousand CFA for your ram.'
'No,' replied the man. 'I want fifty.'
The herder went away.
A marabout approached and said, 'I'll give you forty-five thousand CFA for your ram.'
'No,' replied the man. 'I want fifty.'
The marabout went away.
A merchant approached and said,' I'll give you forty-five thousand CFA for your ram.'
'No,' said the man. 'I want fifty.'
The merchant went away.
No one was willing to buy the ram at fifty thousand CFA, so the man took it back home with him and tied it to one of the upright poles of his shade shelter. He noticed that the time was now two o'clock so he bowed down there and then to perform his sallifana prayers.
As the man straightened up for his third Allahu Akbar the ram flew at him and butted him savagely on the forehead, causing a haemorrhage. In the early hours of the morning, the man died in hospital.
Posted by sahelsteve at 12:22 PM
November 07, 2008
27 tips on how to write well
Found over at Confident Writing, a list of 27 tips for writing like Hemingway! I really like these tips. Some I 'get', some I don't. But all of it has the ring of truth.
#1 Start with the simplest things
#2 Boil it down
#3 Know what to leave out
#4 Write the tip of the ice-berg, leave the rest under the water
#5 Watch what happens today
#6 Write what you see
#7 Listen completely
#8 Write when there is something you know, and not before
#9 Look at words as if seeing them for the first time
#10 Use the most conventional punctuation you can
#11 Ditch the dictionary
#12 Distrust adjectives
#13 Learn to write a simple declarative sentence
#14 Tell a story in six words
#15 Write poetry into prose
#16 Read everything so you know what you need to beat
#17 Don’t try to beat Shakespeare
#18 Accept that writing is something you can never do as well as it can be done
#19 Go fishing in summer
#20 Don’t drink when you’re writing
#21 Finish what you start
#22 Don’t worry. You’ve written before and you will write again
#23 Forget posterity. Think only of writing truly
#24 Write as well as you can with no eye on the market
#25 Write clearly - and people will know if you are being true
#26 Just write the truest sentence that you know
#27 Remember that nobody really knows or understands the secret
Posted by sahelsteve at 03:24 PM
October 22, 2008
The ear does not have a lid
Dikko Husseyni and Sisse Mamadou are sitting on wicker chairs in front of a mud-brick house. Two vultures squint down at them from the rooftop above, scraggy and angular like broken umbrellas.
'Did you hear the news about Muusa Kuranga?' asks Husseyni.
'I certainly did,' says Mamadou. 'Nowru walaa omboode.'
Nowru walaa omboode - the ear does not have a lid. The Fulani proverb means that when something significant happens in the neighbourhood, no one can help but hear about it.
'When I heard the news,' says Husseyni, 'my heart stopped beating and it took a long time to start again. Such a thing has never happened before amongst the peoples of the north.'
'Is it true they ate everything?'
'In the name of God, every last grain.'
'And is it true the mayor posted people all around the field?'
'Not just people. State police with batons!'
The field under discussion is situated eight kilometres out of town and has been the subject of a recent land dispute. Muusa Kuranga and his ancestors have cultivated the land for as long as people can remember, but the local council want to turn it into a cattle grazing zone. Two years ago they informed Kuranga that he must forfeit the land. He refused, and the dispute rumbled on month after month. Until last Wednesday, when the council took decisive action in a form that no one can quite believe.
The councillors chose the day of the weekly market, when they knew Kuranga would leave his millet field and come to town. They waited until he was out of sight, then rounded up a huge herd of cows and drove the cows into the field. By the time Kuranga got back from the market, his crops had been completely destroyed.
'And only a week away from harvest, too,' adds Husseyni. 'What those men did was truly wicked.' He starts to laugh, but not because there is anything funny about the conversation. In a society where grief and anger are shameful, nervous laughter is often the only outlet for emotion.
The vultures shuffle sideways along their rooftop, eyes flickering in search of prey. Their hooked beaks are red the whole way up.
'How many councillors are there?' asks Mamadou.
'Fifty-three.'
'How could fifty-three men decide to do such a thing?'
'They voted,' says Husseyni. 'My cousin was in the meeting and he told me there were three proposals. Proposal one: let Kuranga harvest his millet and then settle the land dispute. Proposal two: send some young men to harvest the millet and distribute it to the poor. Proposal three: get a herd of cows do the job. Quicker and cheaper that way. The first proposal got ten votes, the second proposal got twelve and the third proposal got thirty-one.'
Mamadou sighs and shakes his head. 'Allahu akbar,' he whispers.
It is not the land dispute itself that people here care so deeply about. What they cannot stomach is the deliberate destruction of food in this region of perennial hunger. The ear does not have a lid, but sometimes one might wish that it did.
Posted by sahelsteve at 11:45 PM
June 18, 2008
Guardian Weekly Podcast
Oooh goodie, I've never been part of a podcast before.
Posted by sahelsteve at 10:26 PM
June 10, 2008
Who's afraid of roughing it a little?
Here is a link to the Sunday Times FESHIBA horse festival article.
The finished article was hardly edited at all until it came to the 'How To Do It' paragraph right at the end. Looks like the editor did not feel that the phrases 'bush taxi', 'rough it' or 'Do not expect anyone to understand English' were appropriate for the genteel readership of the Sunday Times. They're probably right, but just look the solution they're suggesting: a tour company offering 14 days in West Africa, starting at £2,900 per person. Gulp.
For what it's worth, here's the real How To Do Feshiba, as originally offered to the Times. Much more fun this way, I promise you!
Dates:
The 2008 festival took place on 29 February and 1 March. Dates for the 2009 festival have yet to be confirmed. Ring Mamadou Sidibe (+226 70285191) to find out more or to book a place.
Travel:
The Liza Transport bus (+226 50387410) travels daily from Ouagadougou (capital of Burkina Faso) to Nouna, a journey of 6 hours. A bush taxi will take you the remaining 56 kilometres to Barani.
Accommodation:
There are no hotels or auberges in Barani, so you will be the guest of a family. Come prepared to rough it a little. Bring your own sleeping mat, sheet, pillow, towel and soap.
Food:
Expect to eat with your host family - bread and coffee for breakfast, then rice or spaghetti for lunch and dinner. Bottled water and Coke can be bought in the market.
Dress:
Barani is a rural Muslim community, and visitors should dress accordingly. Bare skin should be minimized.
Language:
Do not expect anyone in Barani to understand English. Most people speak at least some French.
Riding at Barani:
Phone Modibo Traoré (+226 50393371 or +226 78206367) if you would like to ride at Barani. Modibo runs an excellent riding centre in Ouagadougou (www.oasisducheval.com) and always takes horses to FESHIBA.
Posted by sahelsteve at 08:31 PM
June 06, 2008
FESHIBA Barani Horse Festival article in Sunday Times this weekend
Our Barani horse festival article is in the Sunday Times Travel Section this weekend.
This is the first journalistic project that Charlie and I have worked on together so we're really looking forward to seeing the result. For those outside of the UK, I'll see whether there's an online version I can link to.
Posted by sahelsteve at 01:07 PM
May 31, 2008
Motorbike accidents in the Sahel
Another motorbike accident in Djibo today. This time it was Pastor Nikiema - hitting a hole at speed, on the way back from Weendupooli. He smashed his face quite badly but it'll mend. There seem to be a lot of motorbike accidents around town at the moment, and a lot of fatalities - more so than any year I can remember.
The gold rush just north of here is partly to blame (not in Pastor Nikiema's case, but in others). Young men at the mines measure in motorbikes how much gold they find - casually saying things like 'Isa Yero brought two motorbikes out of the well yesterday'* - that's how automatic is the assumption that motorbikes is what a lucky miner will buy. New money buys Yamahas and Kaiser 140s, end of story.
But neither youth nor new money are guarantees of being able to ride a motorbike safely. These guys fly through the wasteland between Broo and Djibo like desert djinns late for a haunting, and frequently total their bikes in sand.
For older men who acquire new motorbikes, the problem is not the same as for the boy racers. No - their problem is their turbans. This year two men I know of were strangled by their turbans when the loose end went in the wheel. I kid you not. And all because the stylish look for a West African turban is to have a loose end hanging down to your waist or beyond. As Charlie commented, those men are the ultimate fashion victims.
I ride my Yamaha DT every day, for errands and visits (and sometimes, I confess, just for the fun of it). But these days I always try to remember the three rules of Sahel riding: Watch your speed, watch the sand, and keep your turban short.
(*The Fulfulde for this even more baffling when the euphemism 'horse' is used. 'Isa Yero brought two horses out of the well yesterday.' Wow. Now there's a heavy bucket.)
Posted by sahelsteve at 09:21 PM
March 26, 2008
Feshiba pictures
Just a taste of Barani (photos will open as pop-ups)
Posted by sahelsteve at 12:27 AM
March 11, 2008
Kingdom and the Horse
Since the year 2000, the tiny village of Barani in north-west Burkina Faso has played host to an extraordinary horse festival, one of the most colourful and arresting spectacles in the whole of West Africa. Charlie and I went along for the ride.
The tam-tams of the Barani griots have been pounding all night, with a brief interlude for the call to morning prayer. The village wakes, fumbles for water buckets, washes face and ears, prays and blinks back sleep. On a sandy plain in the middle of Barani, small groups of men meet, shake hands and rattle through obligatory greetings.
'Did you pass the night in peace?'
'Peace only.'
'Did you sleep?'
'Praise God.'
'How is your family?'
'Peace only.'
To the north of the greeters stands the house of Al Haji Sidibe Moussa, mayor of Barani. To the south is the house of Al Haji Sidibe Saali, the traditional chief. To the west, the mosque. To the east, a palm-dotted sand dune with the rising sun behind.
The pounding of tam-tams is joined by a chorus of flutes. A red prayer hat, like a second fiercer sunrise, appears over the brow of the dune, and beneath the hat, a fifty-something man, resplendent in a broad-shouldered green and yellow boubou. Beneath the man, a horse.
And what a horse it is! A pale chestnut stallion with rings on its bridle and bells on its reins, it lopes down the sandy track and comes to a halt before the company of early-risers. The rider holds the reins lightly between finger and thumb like a douser wielding his rods or an artist his brush. For a moment, even the griots go quiet.
In Burkina Faso, horse-riding is more than a leisure pastime - it is the tradition, love and lore of an entire nation. It is no coincidence that the country's coat of arms depicts a horse, that the coveted first prize of Ouagadougou's pan-African film festival is the 'Etalon d'Or' (Golden Stallion), that the nickname of the national football team is 'Les Etalons' or that the most common surname here is Ouedraogo (which means stallion in the predominant more language). In countries populated by dozens of different ethnic groups, national identity is often an elusive quarry, but here in Burkina Faso one thing is sure: that quarry has a mane, a tail and four hooves.
The rider turns his heels, touches the reins lightly on his horse's withers and leans forward in the saddle. The stallion bows, furls his front legs and kneels on the sand. The assembled praise-singers and musicians come to life again, banging the drums around their necks in riotous acclaim.
'Sidibe Ousmane!' cries a griot. 'Ousmane Moussa son of Moussa Alu son of Alu Simbi Koté! Revered by men, esteemed by other knights, beloved of God Himself.'
At a whisper from Sidibe Ousmane, the fine steed lowers its belly to the ground, followed in an arc by the long neck and jewelled jowls. Motionless save for the rise and fall of one glossy flank, the stallion lies prostrate in front of the chief's gate. When the dust has settled, the knight steps up onto the side of his horse and plants his feet wide. His hands are on his hips, his jaw jutting and his gaze level. If this is obeisance to the chief of Barani, I would hate to see defiance.
The fall of the Timbuktu in the sixteenth century led to a mass migration south into the Bobola region of what is now Burkina Faso. The formidable Fulani warrior Sega Samba was one of these new arrivals. He subjugated the Samo farmers and Dozo hunters living in Bobola, creating the Emirate of Barani. The conquered peoples were allowed to live in peace on condition that they pay annual obeisance to the new Fulani chief. The modern Festival Hippique de Barani (FESHIBA) is a reincarnation of that ancient ceremony of allegiance.
At a sharp command from Sidibe Ousmane, the chestnut stallion rises and stalks off towards the mosque, black topiary tail swishing as he goes.
'You think that was amazing,' says a voice in my ear. 'Before the end of today you will see things to make you believe there is magic at work in this village.'
More and more horsemen are coming down the sandy track and taking up their positions in front of the Barani mosque. I can count upwards of thirty horses, all dressed up in their Feshiba best with tasselled bridles, patchwork numnahs and glorious technicolour dream-saddles.
The organisers, young men from the chief's extended family, are busy setting out chairs under a shade shelter.
'We've borrowed chairs from primary schools as far away as Nouna,' huffs Sidibe Sita, 'and still we only have four hundred and twenty. Most people will have to stand.'
Barani has no roads, electricity, running water, secondary school or clinic. It has no phone lines and no mobile network. But today this unprepossessing village will be the focus of a whole country's attention. The RTB (Radio-Television Burkina) truck has already arrived. Two government ministers are on their way with an armed convoy, and those charged with the speeches are nervously rehearsing the names of multitudinous mayors and countless chiefs. Horses in Burkina Faso have always been symbols of royalty, nobility and wealth, and today's shenanigans are sure to bring out the kings in droves. For all its reputation as a ceremonial and sporting occasion, Feshiba is fundamentally a power-fest.
Diallo Sambo, a local Fulani, takes his place beside me under the shade shelter and his first question rather takes me aback: 'Puccu annduda naa Mobil?' (Do you know Horse or do you know Car?)
'Mobil,' I murmur, feeling almost ashamed to admit it. During the last thirty years, the proliferation of the motor engine all over West Africa has caused a severe decline in horse numbers. Nowadays most Fulani use the word puccu (horse) to mean motorbike, whilst the oddly tautological puccu leebi (hairy horse) has been coined to refer to the animal.
All a far cry from the time of Adama 'Widi' Gnôbo, the illustrious chief who ruled the Barani region between 1870 and 1901. Widi loved horses more than any king before or since, and during his reign one good stallion was worth ten slaves.
In the centre of the front row of chairs stands a carved wooden seat with a high angled back. An old man in blue robes comes out of his gate, greets the assembled crowd and walks to the throne. His wrinkled face is angular but kindly.
'Amiiru Al Haji Sidibe Saali!' cries a griot, pointing a long finger at the old man. 'Al Haji Sidibe Saali, chief of Barani, tamer of horses, brother of Al Haji Moktar Alfa.'
The griot continues with the chief's genealogy, emphasizing each new name with a finger waggle. The tam-tams start up again and right on cue a stallion comes out of line to dance obeisance. He paws the ground, trots on the tips of his hooves, bows, rears and wheels around like a magic teacup rollercoaster ride. I could swear the horse is even wiggling his bottom. The 'Haaro' has begun.
One by one the riders show off their skill, and most of them finish their routine as Sidibe Ousmane did, by bringing their horse to lie down before the chief and then sitting or standing on the horse's prostrate flank, thereby demonstrating their complete mastery of the animal. There are variations on the theme: one takes off his turban and waves it above his head like a football scarf; another dances a Bob Marley jig across his horse's ribcage. But it is a blacksmith from Bankass who steals the show. Dressed in pristine white robes, Noumu Jor prostrates his horse, hops out of the saddle, sandwiches himself between the animal's legs and pretends to go to sleep.
Samo and Mossi, Dogon and Dozo, Bambara, Bobo, French and Fulani spectators rise to their feet and crane their necks. There is laughter and thunderous applause. Noumu Jor is using his stallion's legs as a bedspread! The RTB cameraman scampers about trying to get the best shot. A tide of crazy-toothed griots surges towards the sleeping chevalier and drums him back to life. The mayor of Sokoto leans forward in his seat and waves a five thousand franc note - fit reward for the heroic blacksmith.
A volley of Dozo hunting rifles celebrates the arrival of the Bobo chiefs. Here they come, magnificent in boubous, spectacles, prayer hats and bling, swaggering through the clearing gunpowder smoke like pop divas through dry ice. The sea of griots is eulogizing and genealogizing like mad, holding out hats and palms in earnest supplication. When the Bobo delegation arrives at the gathered ranks of invitees there ensues a joyful frenzy of hand-shaking and elbow-grasping.
'That's Sheik Jibiliiru Sangai!' exclaims my neighbour. 'And there behind him, Nuuhu Mandé himself!'
The Dozo hunters continue their seventy-gun salute and at every shot the line of horses jumps in fright. For almost two hundred years, horses and rifles have been linked and today's ceremony evokes those memories of less peaceful times. The nineteenth century Malinke warlord Samory Touré was the first of many military leaders to recognize the quality of Barani's horses and riders, relying on them throughout his bloodthirsty raids into the West African interior.
I can't help noticing one stallion in the line that doesn't jump at the regular rifle-fire. On either side of him the tassels and tails are flying, but this one horse remains a picture of equine equanimity. Its rider is a young man with a trim moustache and a wide grin, wearing the traditional Fulani straw-and-leather hat. This is Idrissa, son of chief Saali, as cheerful and handsome as his horse is unflappable.
The stage is set. The guests of honour are seated. The tree by the mosque is groaning with the weight of all Barani's children. Now the Haaro scales new heights of miracle and wonder, with several horses cavorting simultaneously. One is pogo-ing around on its hind legs, another is standing on top of a wooden pounding mortar, and Idrissa's steed is dancing an Irish jig in front of Sheik Jibliiru. The air is thick with dust and gunpowder smoke, and pulses with the relentless clickety-clack of a thousand ringed fingers on a hundred calabashes.
A little man in bright orange robes is tap-dancing amongst the horses, distributing 10,000 franc notes like leaves while onlookers whoop in incredulity. 'It's the mayor of Ouonkoro!' cries my neighbour. 'Look at him go!' With Mali only twenty-five kilometres away, many of today's guests have come from across the border, and Feshiba unites the two nations in shared appreciation of the chevalier's art. Ouonkoro is Barani's twin town in Mali, and right now its skipping mayor is doing wonders for international relations.
By midday, the horses are tired of the sun's fierce heat, and spectators' throats are all whooped out. Festivities will be suspended until the afternoon, when ten thousand people will gather on the Barani plains to watch the hairy horses race. Young and old, rich and poor, beggar and chief will line up together and race bareback until the dust blots out the sun. For the last two years the chief's six year-old chestnut stallion has won the final Race of Races, and most people in Barani are hoping for a repeat performance.
Whoever wins the final race, the village will not sleep tonight. The Jumbo truck is in town and a dozen workers are already rigging up a massive wall of amplifiers for an all-night dance party. From dusk till dawn, thousands of villagers will strut their stuff to a heady mix of reggae, hiphop and Jumbo Poulet stock-cube ads.
The horses will not be among those present for they have already danced enough. As a crescent moon rises in a starry sky, the steeds will shed bangles, wolf millet and enjoy a well-earned rest.
Posted by sahelsteve at 08:08 PM
October 12, 2007
Château d'If
| "Look round you then." Dantes rose and looked forward, when he saw rise within a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which stands the Chateau d'If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more than three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to Dantes like a scaffold to a malefactor.
"The Chateau d'If?" cried he, "what are we going there for?" |   |
The Count of Monte Cristo is a novel by Alexander Dumas. Along with The Three Muskateers, it is his most popular work. More than a dozen Count of Monte Cristo films have been made, tesimony to its extraordinary narrative power.
The prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room almost under ground, whose bare and reeking walls seemed as though impregnated with tears...
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Dantes had exhausted all human resources, and he then turned to God. All the spirituality that had been so long forgotten, returned; he recollected the prayers his mother had taught him, and discovered a new meaning in every word...He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer terrified at the sound of his own voice, for he fell into a sort of ecstasy. He laid every action of his life before the Almighty, proposed tasks to accomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the entreaty oftener addressed to man than to God: "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us."
For a long time I have wanted to visit Château d'If. Two years ago I was in Marseille and went down to the Vieux Port to catch a boat there, but the sea was too rough and the boat wasn't going. Last week, I finally got my wish. Charlie and I went there on Thursday and we explored the castle. What a disturbing and fascinating place - rich food for the imagination.
Suddenly, about nine o'clock in the evening, Edmond heard a hollow sound in the wall against which he was lying. So many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their noise did not, in general, awake him; but whether abstinence had quickened his faculties, or whether the noise was really louder than usual, Edmond raised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if made by a huge claw, a powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking the stones. Although weakened, the young man's brain instantly responded to the idea that haunts all prisoners - liberty!
Quotations from Literature.org
Posted by sahelsteve at 10:42 AM
September 29, 2007
Rennes-le-Chateau Da Vinci Code Priory of Sion Conspiracy Conspiracy Conspiracy
I first read the Da Vinci code at Stansted Airport back in 2004. As mumbo-jumbo goes, it was cracking stuff. My favourite bits are the early rushing-around-the-Louvre scenes; the anagrams, the clichés, the melodramatic lines, in particular Robert Langdon's anguished 'I need to get to a library - fast!'
Saw the Da Vinci Code film for the first time on Wednesday night and I have to admit that I enjoyed it.
The GPS-in-the-soap bit always appealed to my imagination (that was when GPS tracker shenannigans were still quite original and fun). In the book you see them throw it out of the window onto the truck, but in the film you don't - interesting scriptwriting dilemma, that. Show the soap being thrown or not? What do you think? Which is more fun - being in on the trick or being left guessing?
As for all the Jesus-and-Mary-bloodline claims, Dan Brown has said this: "This book is not anti-anything. It's a novel. I wrote this story in an effort to explore certain aspects of Christian history that interest me...A reader does not have to agree with every word in the novel to use the book as a positive catalyst for introspection and exploration of our faith." Full interview here.
Fair enough, in principle. But how many people closed 'The Da Vinci Code' or walked out of the cinema believing one or more of the following?
- That Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene who had a child who escaped to France.
- Mary Magdalene was to head the church, but Peter and the other disciples took over.
- Jesus was turned into “God” in order to protect the patriarchal system, the Catholic Church along with the rest of Christianity has worked together to maintain this 2000-year cover up.
- The secret of Jesus’ “True Identity” is maintained by a group known as the “Priory of Sion” that has existed since 1099.
If you are seriously bothered by any of the above questions, have a look at one of the many Debunking Da Vinci sites.
Yesterday Charlie and I visited Rennes-le-Château in the French Pyranees. Here's a picture of it, from Blather.net
That is the 'Tour de Magdala' perched on a the top of a mountain, overlooking the beautiful countryside below.
It can be argued that this tranquil village Rennes-le-Château is the source of the whole Da Vinci Code maelstrom. The 'Priory of Sion' myth can be easily traced back from Dan Brown to Henry Lincoln to Gérard de Sède to Pierre Plantard to Noël Corbu - a hotel owner in Rennes-le-Château who created the 'mystery' in order to attract custom to his restaurant!
The whole delicious trail is explained under the subheading 'The Saunière Story' in the Wikipedia entry for Rennes-le-Château.
Posted by sahelsteve at 10:36 AM
May 01, 2007
Burkina Faso census
Samba Normé and Idrissa Cisse came round this afternoon and argued with each other. Samba Normé is a Fulani man who scrapes a living in the bush by selling wood and dodging forestry rangers. Idrissa Cisse is a townie, currently working as a door-to-door inquisitor for the nationwide census. We sat outside in my yard making tea on a small charcoal stove.
It was Samba who started the argument. He downed his shot-glass of tea (traditionally ‘bitter like death’) and turned to Idi. ‘Onon yimbe resonsmon mbooda,’ he declared. ‘You census people are evil.’
Idrissa looked hurt. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘You come and tire us out with hundreds of questions and you don’t give us anything in return. You ask us lots of impolite questions like how many cows and goats and sheep we have in our herds. And you ask us if we own a mobile phone when you can see full well that we don’t even own shoelaces.’
The census-taker shook his head. ‘You bush folk are the ones who tire us out,’ he said. ‘You lie about everything. You even lie about how many children you have, because you think that if the desert djinns overhear they might come and steal one.’
‘I told the truth about my children,’ said Samba haughtily.
‘What about employment?’ said Idrissa. ‘Did you tell your census-taker what you do for a living?’
‘And have the forest rangers knocking on my door in the middle of the night? Of course I didn’t. I said cultivateur. Everybody knows that cultivateurs get left in peace.’
‘There!’ cried Idrissa. ‘Liars, all of you! Burayma Gorel in Jawjaw told me to write him down for two cows, and when I got up to leave, his cows came home. I counted thirty-five.’
‘That’s because Burayma Gorel knows what you people are like! You’ll come back next year and announce that the government is introducing a special bovine tax: a thousand francs per cow.’
‘We’re census-takers,’ said Idrissa. ‘You can trust us.’
‘Oh really?’ Samba wagged his index finger in front of the census-taker’s nose. ‘You obviously didn’t hear about Al Haji Abdulsalam.’
‘What about him?’
‘His census-taker asked him to give three examples of what he says to his wife when they are making love at night.’
Amusement and professional solemnity chased each other across Idrissa’s face. ‘He shouldn’t have asked that,’ he said at last. ‘That wasn’t in the questionnaire.’
Samba took the second shot-glass (traditionally ‘sweet like love’) and downed it in three indignant slurps. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter what you ask, does it? When you go home in the evening, you make up all your results.’
I expected Idrissa to deny this accusation hotly, but he did not. He drained his glass of tea and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Have you seen how long those questionnaires are? If we filled out one for each family in the bush we would still be doing the census when Isa calls Muusa.’ (Fulani slang for ‘a very long time’).
‘So Samba’s right,’ I said. ‘You fake the results.’
‘Not all of them. Every day we do the first three or four properly, then for the rest we just write the head of household’s name and whether he looks rich or poor or very poor. We can pad it out later.’
For a long time no one speaks. The teapot hisses on its charcoal stove. It is Idrissa who finally breaks the silence. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?’
Posted by sahelsteve at 11:20 PM
April 23, 2007
Songs of our Fathers
Africa Geographic sent me the proofs today for my article 'Songs of our Fathers'. Their designer has come up with this piece of artwork for the title page, which I think is very well-conceived and beautiful:
This article will be in the June issue of Africa Geographic.
Posted by sahelsteve at 02:43 PM
April 04, 2007
Anarchic worship
Kids in Gorom-Gorom learning the worship song 'Foofo maa Alla' (thank you God). Haha.
Posted by sahelsteve at 10:30 PM
Dogon women pounding onions
A feel-good pounding song I recorded in Mali last year.
Posted by sahelsteve at 10:05 PM
March 02, 2007
The chiefs of the Jelgoobe
The Fulani of Djibo are called the Jelgoobe. The chief of the Jelgoobe today is Boubukari Amadu, son of Amadu Mannga, whose brothers and sisters are Sammba Mannga, Saalu Mannga, Booyi Mannga, Amnatu Mannga, Kumo Mannga and Jeneba Mannga. Son of Mannga Haamidi whose brother was Mamadou Haamidi. Son of Haamidi Alu, whose brothers and sisters were Iisaa Alu, Buguuru Alu, Fajaaji Alu, Atiko Alu, Abdusalam Alu, Sekeeru Alu, Salaamata Alu and Djiika Alu. Son of Alu Oumarou, whose brother was Galo Oumarou. Son of Oumarou Ba Sambo, whose brothers were Hama Baa Sambo, Maaliki Ba Sambo, Bure Ba Sambo and Alu Ba Sambo. Son of Ba Sambo Nyorgo, whose brothers were Hamadum Nyorgo, Hamadi Njaare Nyorgo, Sambooru Nyorgo, Bura Nyorgo, Buubu Nyorgo and Oumarou Nyorgo. Son of Nyorgo Mbuula, whose brothers were Mbabba Mbuula, Belko Mbuula and Paate Mbuula. Son of Mbuula Ali, whose brother was Mboldi Ali. Son of Ali Simbi Ko'e, the first of the Jelgoobe.
Thanks to griot Hassan Sango for this family tree. If you are interested, here is a piece I wrote for Ancestors magazine entitled Chants of Memory.
Posted by sahelsteve at 11:29 AM
January 16, 2007
Foonga and other dinnertime crimes
An edited version of this article appeared in the Guardian Weekly (1-8 February 2007): Real Men Don't Eat.
Night falls. Hamma’s wife approaches the men’s mat, bends down and then beats a hasty retreat. She has left behind a large bowl of millet and a smaller one of sauce. There is a hurricane lamp on the ground nearby but it will remain unlit. After all, eating is a shameful activity best done in obscurity.
‘Nyiiri wari’ (the millet paste has come), murmurs our host Hamma, but no one answers. Bukari is plaiting strands of plastic to make rope. Amadou is hollowing out a small log to make a feeding trough. Hamma’s son Burayma is lying on his back gazing up at the stars. There is no rubbing of hands, no cry of ‘Good, I’m famished’, no acknowledgement at all of the nyiiri’s arrival.
Hamma pours water into a bowl. ‘Lootee juude mon’ (wash your hands). Bukari sighs and dabbles his right hand in the water, but Amadou hangs back. ‘I ate yesterday,’ he says.
The Fulani of West Africa are governed by a code of behaviour called pulaaku, similar to stoicism in that it demands the mastery of human needs. Hunger, thirst, pain, grief and affection are all passions which must be ruthlessly controlled. The phrase ‘I ate yesterday’ is a particularly macho expression of pulaaku, implying that eating on alternate days should be quite enough for anyone.
‘Bismillahi,’ says Hamma and puts his hand in the communal bowl. He takes a handful of the millet paste and dips it in the sauce. Bukari follows suit. My turn. I reach out my right hand and take a glob of the boiling hot millet paste. My fingertips are on fire, but to flinch or say ouch in this setting would be social suicide. A man does not feel pain, and if he does he certainly does not show it. I grit my teeth, dip the nyiiri in the baobab leaf sauce, and raise it to my mouth, where it burns my lips and tongue. I swallow, smile weakly and brace myself for the next handful.
Hamma’s cows stand all around us, chewing the cud and stamping their hooves on the ground to ward off mosquitoes. A Fulani’s cows are very much part of the family, and they roam right up to the straw huts. Short of actually eating the huts, the cows can do no wrong.
‘They were vaccinating cows in the marketplace today,’ I say, and the group explodes into laughter. Making conversation near the beginning of a meal is called foonga, and it is another violation of pulaaku. It demonstrates that you were so hungry that your brain stopped working, and only now that you have swallowed something have you thought of something to say.
A Fulani meal is a tightrope stretched over an abyss of foonga. Speaking too soon is bad form, but staying silent too long is equally disgraceful; it suggests that you are so focused on eating, you can’t think about anything else.
Another heinous crime is to break off too big a piece of nyiiri in one go. Fulani folklore tells of a greedy man called Bellaajo who went to eat at his neighbour’s hut. As Bellaajo reached out to dip his millet in the sauce, there was a sudden flash of lightening and everyone around the bowl saw that Bellaajo’s nyiiri was as big as his fist. Luckily, Bellaajo was a quick thinker. He put the hunk of millet to one side and said to his host, ‘You should save that for the children’s breakfast.’
Eating in front of one’s mother-in-law is a serious taboo. Some Fulani men take this to extremes and feel ashamed to eat in front of women at all. Amadou boasts that even his own wife has never seen him eat, but I have never had the opportunity to ask her whether this is true. I suspect that Amadou might be exaggerating his pulaaku credentials.
Since I have already committed foonga, I might as well reinforce my shame. I raise my head and peer into the shadows where I imagine Hamma’s wife and daughters are sitting. ‘Nyiiri mon na weli de!’ I call (This nyiiri is delicious!). That should give them something to talk about tomorrow afternoon while they are pounding the millet for dinner.
Posted by sahelsteve at 11:06 AM
November 29, 2006
Forgive me Dogon - I got you so wrong
Dear Stephen,
Congratulations for your nice and interesting blog Voice in the desert. I reached it par hasard through Technorati. I read your post about Dogon Country. I can agree with your statement that it’s a rather improbable place :) And also a magic one.
But there are some things that I must say are not completely exact in what you say.
First thing: the word 'Dogon' has no plural, something rather surprising for Occidentals. It is 'the Dogon', which refers to individuals as well as to the whole ethnic group.
Concerning masks: the masks you can see in Dogon Country are...Dogon. As you mentioned, Fulani don’t use masks. Maybe the mistake came from the fact that Dogon do wear Fulani hats. Making masks is actually one of the most famous pieces of Dogon art. They are only used for traditional animist feasts, especially the Great Mask, called Kanaga.
Dogon don’t pound onions in order to charge tourists 1000CFA for a picture. This assessment is very simplistic! If you visit a Dogon market, you will notice that onions are under various states (fresh, sun dried, pounded... and even rotten!) When they are pounded, it’s because they are ready to use, like many other spices or leaves (baobab, karite), in order to prepare the traditional sauce. And Dogon did it from long before tourists discovered Dogon Country. Dogon women spend a long time mashing millet and getting water (wells are often far from villages). So, the dealers offer them pounded onions to save time. For example, in order to prepare the da, an incredible mixture of mutton head and tripe with a sauce made with baobab, onion, sorrel and chilli. Not bad but they eat it for breakfast. Tough!
About granaries: all of them are not circular. They are circular when they belong to women, and square when they belong to men.
The Hogon is often the oldest man of the village but not always. He is the spiritual head and considered as the wisest. He has a very tough life once he is appointed Hogon by the oldest men of the village after long talks under the Toguna (Word House). He must live on his own, outside of the village just under the cliff, he must never leave his house and only his wife is allowed to bring him food, he is supposed to have no contact with water (even for drinking: according to the beliefs, he is cleaned and receives water only from the sacred serpent Lébé during the night as you mentioned) and he stays a Hogon till his death.
If you wish to know (a little bit) more about Dogon, have a look at this Dogon page.
Cheers
François http://aceras-photos.over-blog.com/
Posted by sahelsteve at 07:20 AM
February 01, 2006
Those dogon Dogons
For a long time it had been a dream of mine to visit Dogon country - a 150 km stretch of cliffs in the south of Mali, dotted with fairytale Dogon villages. Last week I had the chance to spend a day there. Well worth it, even factoring in the ten-hour drive each way to get there and back.
Continue reading "Those dogon Dogons"
Posted by sahelsteve at 09:03 AM
October 23, 2005
Meet the Griots
They have phenomenal memories, searing wit and nimble fingers. Most importantly, they are never lost for words. Meet the griots of Burkina Faso.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light in the inner court I saw Dikko Hamadou, the Fulani chief of Djibo (north-west Burkina Faso). He was swathed in indigo and sitting bolt upright on a wicker chair. On millet-stalk mats before him crouched ranks of well-wishers, here to congratulate their chief on the forthcoming marriage of his nephew.
'Salam aleykum' , I said.
'Aleykum asalam,' replied the visitors in unison.
'Mi wari faa jowte' (I have come to greet you), I said to the chief, and he nodded graciously, offering his hand. We rattled through the greeting sequence and I took a place on one of the mats.
A figure appeared at the door, the wide shoulders of his robe blocking out the light. He did not enter the inner court, but stood framed in the doorway and pointed a long forefinger at the chief.
'Dikko Hamadou, maami to maama, maami to maama, maami to maama, ' cried the intruder. His resonant voice shattered the calm of the court.
'Moyyi!' (Good!) shouted a second voice behind him.
'Dikko Hamadou, bii Dikko Paate!' cried the first.
'Moyyi!' shouted the second.
'Bii Dikko Mamadou.'
'Moyyi!'
'Bii Dikko Oumarou.'
'Moyyi!'
With a shiver of excitement I realized what was going on.
Continue reading "Meet the Griots"
Posted by sahelsteve at 05:35 PM
October 02, 2005
The brutal desert
Do you remember last year's choggal travelogue? I wrote an article for the Sunday Times based on the same journey, and they have published it today with the title The brutal desert.
Posted by sahelsteve at 01:06 PM
September 19, 2005
Links
A couple things published this week - a collection of Haiku over at Simply Haiku and the article 'Peace be with you in the darkest of times' in the Guardian Weekly.
Posted by sahelsteve at 04:33 PM
May 19, 2005
Daily Wait for Water on Tap
The article 'Queueing' is in this week's 'Guardian Weekly' - see http://www.guardian.co.uk/guardianweekly/letterfrom/story/0,12807,1487654,00.html
They have edited out all references to weaver birds, though. Evidence of an anti-weaver bird bias in the Guardian??
Posted by sahelsteve at 06:06 PM
April 27, 2005
Queuing
Queuing is not an activity typically associated with Africa, but at tap 28 in Djibo the barrels and buckets are lined up in strict single file, shimmering beneath the fierce Sahara sun. The tap itself is set into a pillar on a wide concrete slab, and is secured with a large white-hot padlock. In the shade of the acacia tree where Seydou and I are sitting the temperature is 45 degrees centigrade.
At exactly 3 o'clock Mariama Diallo comes and stands by her bucket, the first one in the queue. The other water-seekers arrive in twos and threes and arrange themselves behind her, laughing and bickering. Most of them are teenage girls with town attitude and town hairdos. Some have dyed their hair with henna and tied it in a big red pony tail, others have used lengths of plastic wire to make their braids stand out from the head in a halo of exclamation marks.
Mariama is fifteen or sixteen years old and her T-shirt bears the enigmatic motto, 'Keep him happy with MAGI cubes'. In spite of the heat, all these girls and women are wearing ankle-length patterned skirts. Modesty has long been a part of Fulani culture, but it is has recently been enforced by legislation forbidding the wearing of short skirts. The penalty for flouting the dress code is to sweep a long street with a short broom. Tourists beware.
Perched on an acacia branch above me, a weaver bird watches the girls with his beak wide open in a comic expression of astonishment. This is the masked weaver bird, a male just coming into his rainy-season plumage, his black Lone Ranger-like mask already conspicuous on his bright yellow face. In truth he is not surprised - he holds his mouth open like that to try and keep cool.
At this time of year, keeping cool is a prime concern of all Djibo residents, feathered or not. Scorpions emerge from the baking sand and seek out cooler places, idling under the lip of a clay water pot or in the toe of a discarded plimsoll. The donkeys under the acacia tree stand entwined in pairs, resting their heads on each others necks; in this energy-sapping heat even supporting the weight of one's own head is a chore. Indeed, between midday and four o'clock everything one does is an exertion - standing upright, blinking, swallowing saliva, sighing, tutting, murmuring 'Naange na haadi katin' (Turned out sunny again), even breathing in and out. Let's face it, the north of Burkina Faso in May is profoundly unsuited to human existence, and even the locals never get used to it. Black skin is advantageous, of course, but even better would be a skin that you could unzip and climb out of.
At ten past three Seydou 'Jom Ndiyam' ambles up to the tap. He peers at the girls through the gap in his voluminous turban, eyes narrowed to slits (open your eyes too wide in this sun and you begin to smell your retinas sizzling). Seydou attaches a short hose to the spout, sprawls on the concrete slab, throws an arm over his eyes and falls asleep. Out in the bush, Jom Ndiyam (literally 'water lord') denotes a djinn living in a river or lake who must be placated in order to gain access to the water; here in town the term refers to Seydou and his colleagues at the water-board. The urban water lord is altogether more benign and less mysterious than his rural spirit counterpart.
Eleven past three and Mariama steps up to the tap and turns it; liquid life gushes into her plastic bucket. The weaver hops onto a lower branch and cocks its head to one side, while the girls in the queue loll and chatter and squabble over their places, awaiting their turns impatiently. For those at the back of the line, it will be several hours before they reach the tap; many of them will have to return home in the dark.
Mariama places a 5 CFA coin on the concrete slab next to the water lord. He still looks fast asleep but she knows better than to test his vigilance by not paying. She lifts the bucket to chest height, and someone helps her to manoeuvre it onto her head. It is full to the brim but not a drop is spilled. She moves off, hips swaying, one hand raised to steady the rim of the bucket.
When she gets home, Mariama will pour this water into the round clay pot which sits in a dark corner of her hut. These pots are magnificent - the wet clay retains the water and cools it down to well below hut-temperature - drinking a beaker of this cool water on a hot day is a real pleasure. Mariama's pot is hardly of Ali Baba proportions but it is certainly big enough to keep her and her husband and children going for a while. If they drink sparingly, she will not have to return to tap 28 until tomorrow afternoon. And if she is there by midday, her bucket might once again be first in the queue.
Posted by sahelsteve at 08:31 AM
February 26, 2005
Hoofing It
Just got an email from Africa Geographic to say they've entered my article 'Hoofing It' in the travel writing section of this year's Mondi Awards in South Africa. Quite exciting.
Posted by sahelsteve at 12:20 PM
October 14, 2004
Insult and Injury
Stephen Davies
Guardian Weekly, October 22 2004
It is late afternoon, that magical hour before dusk when the setting sun casts an orange glow over the entire landscape. Entering Diallo Hamadou’s yard, I see him sitting in front of his hut on a mat made from millet stalks. He jumps up and we rattle through the greeting sequence, asking after each other’s family, health, cows and fields. ‘Peace only,’ we murmur in response to each question. It would be rude not to.
Continue reading "Insult and Injury"
Posted by sahelsteve at 09:30 AM
June 09, 2004
Options - a letter from Brazil
Stephen Davies
nthposition.com, 4 September 2004
I first meet Carlos in an ice cream parlour in Governador Valadares. He and one of his students have come here after an English lesson, so that Carlos can have a quick Cornetto. He greets me in English, and introduces his student, Mario.
'Mario is a hairdresser,' he says, 'aren't you, Mario?'
'Hello Mario,' I say. 'How long have you been learning English?'
'Don't confuse him,' says Carlos, his mouth full of ice cream. 'Use the simple past.'
I try again. 'When did you start learning English?'
'When?' says Carlos, speaking loudly into his student's left ear. 'When did you start my course? Yesterday? Last week? Ten years ago? When?'
The hairdresser looks startled.
Continue reading "Options - a letter from Brazil "
Posted by sahelsteve at 03:09 PM
March 14, 2004
The Hunt for Fifteen Zero
Stephen Davies
Sunday Times, March 14, Travel section
Everything has been discovered, has it not? Every river has been crossed, every mountain scaled, every desert picnicked in. Pioneers have penetrated the hidden corners of the world, and their earnest cartographers have defaced those wonderful white spaces left on the map, filling in every contour, forest and pub. What then remains to be found?
Confluence points remain, or at least a sizeable proportion of them. A confluence is problematic prey. It can be neither seen nor heard, and to hunt it down you need the assistance of a satellite. This is a new dimension of discovery.
Continue reading "The Hunt for Fifteen Zero "
Posted by sahelsteve at 02:50 PM
March 10, 2004
Garibous of God
Stephen Davies
nthposition.com, 10 March 2004
“Standing on one leg is a sin,” announces Mustafa gravely, and he glares around the group of garibous, defying anyone to refute this. They stare back at him wide-eyed, all except for Muusa, an older boy in a ragged Bob Marley T-shirt, who guffaws loudly.
Mustafa rounds on him, “Yes?”
“Standing on one leg is not a sin,” says the boy.
“In the name of God, it is.” Mustafa stands up and points a long thin forefinger at his adversary. “Did not Ibilissa, the Devil himself, stand on one leg for forty years? You want to imitate Ibilissa, do you?”
“Nowhere is that written,” says Muusa, sounding suddenly less sure of himself.
“Walai Allah, it is written. Ibilissa stood on one leg for forty years and whistled. Whistling is also forbidden.”
Continue reading "Garibous of God "
Posted by sahelsteve at 02:57 PM
February 26, 2004
Pastoral Idyll
Stephen Davies
Guardian Weekly, 26 February 2004
‘Oss, oss!’
Forty cows accelerate obediently, heading west across the plain. Jibiliiru holds his staff at each end and places it across his shoulders, resting his forearms on the smooth wood. You can always recognize a Fulani herder, even from several miles away, by this distinctive cruciform posture.
Diallo Jibiliiru lives in a settlement (wuro) called Fetegato in the north of Burkina Faso. He is married to Jeneba and they have a two-year-old daughter whose name they refuse to tell me. Jibiliiru has a large herd of cows and is one of those rare Fulani who can still make a comfortable living from his herd.
Continue reading "Pastoral Idyll "
Posted by sahelsteve at 02:52 PM
December 02, 2003
Seven rays
Stephen Davies
nthposition.com, December 2003
According to Fulani legend, the sun has seven rays. Since creation only one of these rays has been shining on the world, but one day the other six rays will descend and shine, and on that day the very earth will boil like milk in a cauldron. Then the End will come.
Posted by sahelsteve at 02:43 PM
September 04, 2003
Milk Break
Stephen Davies
Guardian Weekly, September 4-11 2003
"Jom kosam, hey! Hey! Jom kosam!"
The two girls stop and turn round carefully. They are too far away for their faces to be seen, but the shape of the calabashes balanced on their heads is very distinctive. They are obviously selling kosam, milk.
Continue reading "Milk Break "
Posted by sahelsteve at 02:38 PM
January 12, 2003
Slow day at the Cattle Market
Stephen Davies
Guardian Weekly, May 8 - 15 2003
Not everyone at the cattle market is standing on one leg but many are. It is a typically Fulani posture; the support leg is absolutely straight, the other is bent, with the foot resting on the support leg just above the knee. Most of the herders here are dressed in dyed robes and wear conical straw hats or turbans. They stand watch over their animals - proud Zebu cattle with long, curved horns. Unsmiling and one-legged, the herders stand in their small groups and wait.